Last Words
by starryeyedwr1ter
Summary: You feel the tears coming but you bite them back. You are no Sylvia Green and you have no right to cry. But as the tears fall anyway, all you can think about is that you don't remember the last words you said to Johnny Cade. Maybe they were sweet. Maybe they were shitty. But whatever they were, you have to find out. Johnny/OC


**Chapter One**

And by the by, in the aftermath of any great tragedy there is always someone who is lost to the shadows. There is always a somebody whose cries are not as loud as the others, whose face is indistinctive in the crowd. She is unimportant, her role non existent. And it just so happens that in the aftermath of Dallas Winston and Johnny Cades's death, that person is you.

For somebody considered something of a drifter, Winston draws a decent crowd at his last farewell. Both parents are there- his Dad looking something like a 1920's gangster in a too tight waistcoat, chewing down hard on his lower lip. His mother is small and fair like Dally was but well made up, an orange tone to her skin clashing against her bright red lipstick. She cries openly in the front pew, bony arms wrapped around herself. You wonder if she's remembering the child she'd once cradled.

There are others of course. Darrel and Sodapop Curtis, Steve Randle and Two-Bit Mathews stand stony faced and tight lipped. During the final hymn, each of them hold their hands respectfully in front of their blazer jackets as if they are from strongly religious families which none of them are. The Shepard Gang led by Tim Shepard himself stand in the row behind them. Old Buck Merrill holds his place across the aisle from the Curtis brothers. I wonder if anybody else notices his cowboy boots peeking out from under his suit trousers.

The strangest thing though- the strangest thing of all- is the different gang members here. MacDonald from the Tiber Street Tigers, Will Craven and Frank Sully from the River Kings. Ronnie Parker and Errol Tate from Brumly. These weren't Winston's friends- but you guess, they respected him. Anyone with a penchant for violence had to respect a temper and pair of fists like Dally's.

But the star of Winston's show- as it had to be- is none other than Sylvia Green. Stood in the front row, perfectly styled in outfit, hair and make up, Sylvia sobs heavily. She is more tragic greek goddess than local hood's on-off girl and some of the other attendees aren't buying it.

"Attention seeking whore," someone whispers.

But it is you, invisible you, who glares back at the owner of the voice. You know, better than anybody, that you never know when your last moment with someone is upon you. It happens to someone every day. They say something to somebody that they never see again. Maybe they said 'See ya' not knowing that was never gonna happen. Maybe they gave them a quick hug before they went separate ways, a hug that they will always wish they'd held onto. But if they're lucky- real lucky- they told that person that they loved them and that person went to their grave knowing that.

You don't remember the last thing you said to Dallas Winston, and you guess that doesn't matter. It sounds cold when you say it, but you ain't here for him, and you ain't here for anybody else standing around in the bitter wind staring at Dallas' pitiful wooden cross.

You're here for Johnny Cade and you have been for a very long time. Not literally. You arrived here at the service about the same time as everybody else. But figuratively-figuratively you have always been here for Johnny. Your Johnny.

The two services are joint. Cheaper that way probably as you know the Winston's and Cade's barely know each other. Pictures of Dallas and Johnny have been placed on the church altar and the priest talks of them like heroes, describing two men nobody in this church even knows.

Dallas wasn't selfless. He was mean and hard, the only person he ever cared about was Johnny.

Johnny wasn't 'full of life' nor were his 'future ambitions limitless'. He had learned to be quiet to avoid trouble. And he had told you on a regular basis that he was 'never getting out'.

But you guess in that church for just a few minutes, the priest had captured the people they were capable of being. The men that they were when they ran into that church to save somebody other than themselves.

Outside, the sound of the dirt hitting Dally's coffin makes you wince. Sylvia kisses the head of a long stemmed rose and throws it in amongst the scattered soil. The crowd start to disperse.

Most people are leaving the cemetery, probably headed to Bucks to get good and drunk and drown their morbid sorrows. But some stay. This small select group drift off to Johnny's small plot where his tiny coffin sits ready beside the open hole.

It ain't much of a turn out. The Curtis boys, Mathews, Randle and Johnny's stinking parents. No place for you to hide but Johnny's friends never paid you much mind before anyhow.

Mrs Cade turns a mascara caked face towards you and reaches out for your hand. You turn your head away and quickly move to the other side of the grave. They never liked you when he was alive, why should it be different now he's dead?

Sodapop Curtis is the only person who notices the interaction.

"You doing okay, kiddo?"

He squeezes the back of your neck and you have to close your eyes at the sheer pain you feel from being reminded of a comforting touch. It has been so long.

You don't answer him but you remember now that Mrs Cade hates the Curtis gang more than she hates you. That's the only reason she is trying to befriend you. You keep your eyes trained to the small wooden coffin, trying to remember how he felt, the way he smelled, every inch of his tanned face from his dark soulful eyes to his shy slow smile.

You can see him climbing over your back fence in denim jeans and his denim jacket. You can see him asleep in your bed, his swollen eyes semi shut but a soft smile on his lips. You can remember finding the knife in his jeans one night and him telling you that he would never ever be hurt like before.

You recall the way he liked to sing along to Elvis Presley and how he wasn't half bad when he got going. His favourite meal in the world was mac and cheese and the first time he made it for you he called it his 'signature dish', using a dish cloth to drape over his arm like a fancy waiter. He wasn't a good sleeper; he was restless and had terrible dreams that he could never remember; a sign that your grandmother used to say foretold an early death.

You remember how pleased he was whenever he helped you with your homework. And you remember the two of you drunk under the stars, his arm about your shoulders.

You feel the tears coming but you bite them back. You are no Sylvia Green and you have no right to cry. But as the tears fall anyway, all you can think about is that you don't remember the last words you said to Johnny Cade.

Maybe they were sweet. Maybe they were shitty.

But whatever they were, you have to find out.

Johnny will never be laid to rest without you knowing them. And frankly, neither will you.

888

 **Johnny fic anyone?**


End file.
